Oh sweet jesus. Or Allah. Or tubby Buddha. Or whatever deity it is that will help me within the hour when this hangover really kicks in.
I can still taste the champagne. Stale by now. Along my tongue. Even after severe teeth brushing.
Granted, I was drinking a whole bottle of it, Verve Clique darling!, about five hours ago. On my ace. But surely it should have buggered off now, be currently roadtripping out of my system.
And as I write this, I stuff any food stuffs into my face.
I blame the joint my cousin kept having to re-light about four hours ago. Crazy middle agers reliving their lost youth!
[Disclaimer: I'm lying about the joint, but it would've explained my munchies, although the copious amounts of alcohol consumed could do pretty well to explain my munchies]
I blame him for EVERYTHING actually. For the tumblers of whiskey in the VIP section especially. The dancing too. Maybe not for the sunglasses or hat donning on my part. The model that knew him, and promised me she would wear flats “next time”.
All those models were hot. Gorgeous. But too tall. Their asses at about the same height as my cleavage. The crowd divinely diverse. The visiting Namibian stalker-ish. The bouncers so pleased to see me. The men just oozing cash. And me more than happy to help them out with this display…
“Oh my god, those two guys just sat down with two full bottles of champagne. Excuse me…. Hi! Oh. Wow. Look. You have champagne... *eyelid batter*…. Oh no no, I wasn’t asking, but since you are now pouring it… why thanks….so unexpected….”
Phone call this morning…Champers’ Mom asking if her reprobate daughter is alive and ok and where exactly are you?? Uhhh….I think I am on your cousin’s couch. ‘Alive’ is relative at this stage.
The one thing about having a stylishly hooligan week night out, that ends hours after the club closed, is that you wonder, over sips of the bubbles and chats with random stylish strangers, why you have been moping and so wasting so many months.